Page 64 of Finding Our Reality

She opens her mouth to tell me no, but I stop her. “I’m not leaving, Lulu. You know that. I know that. So save us both some trouble and let me in.”

She growls. The extra effort makes her cough again. “Fine.”

The second she turns to walk away, I do fall to my knees.

Literally.

Flashes of concern bounce through my mind like vicious lightning strikes. The pinkish-purple line doesn’t belong on her beautiful skin. It’s foreign. New. Wrong. Its home shouldn’t be on her tanned and perfect body. Grabbing her waist, I pull her closer to me. Wrapping my fingers around her left thigh, I lift the hem of her shirt, searching for the starting point of her scar. She stumbles against me, placing her hands on my shoulders to stabilize herself.

“Ry! What are you doing?”

Ignoring her white cotton panties and the fact that my hands are agonizingly close to her crotch, I trace the long surgical scar with my finger. It feels flatter than it looks. It disappears underneath her panties. Not asking for permission, I grab the elastic band and push it up, out of my way. The scar starts atthe crest of her pelvis bone and runs for at least eleven or twelve inches down her hip and thigh. There are two smaller scars on her thigh, closer to the round globe of her ass. Looks like she had stitches.

“Lulu, what the hell happened to you? Are you okay? Did you have surgery?”

“Ry.”

I rub my thumb back and forth against her skin, like the scar is a smudge of dirt I can just wipe off. “Tell me what happened.”

“Ry.” Her voice breaks with emotion.

My head snaps back. Oh my god. My Lulu is about to cry. I whisper, scattering my breath across her bare skin. “Lulu?”

She closes her eyes and licks her lips. “You have to stop touching me. Please. Please stop touching me.”

Lowering my head, I absorb the sight before me, taking in every small detail. Her scars. The chill bumps that flare across her skin with the caress of my finger. The thin white fabric that separates me from her most private part.

I can still taste her. I can still feel my body buried deep inside of her.

I’ve thought of nothing less every time I’ve closed my eyes. For twelve years, I’ve drifted off to sleep every single night thinking of her. Her body. The way her pussy was made for me. No two things have ever fit together more perfectly. My Lulu and me.

“Why? Why do I need to stop?”

She blinks her eyes open. “I can’t think when you touch me.”

“And?”

“And I don’t want you to stop.”

Holy. Shit. “And that’s a bad thing?” The scent of her arousal floods around me, making my dick hard as a rock.

“Yes. Because that’s not our reality. And reality reminds you where you belong, right?” Stepping out of my grasp, she leaves me empty and wanting.

I despise the fact that I allowed those words to rule my life—and hers—for so many years.

It’s time to make my own reality. With Lulu.

Silently, she walks back over to the couch and crawls underneath a thick blanket. It takes a minute before I can stand without breaking my erection in half. Crossing the living room, I sit on the coffee table in front of her. There’s some throat spray and cold medicine spread across the tabletop. There’s a trash can on the floor next to her, filled to the brim with snotty, used tissues. Eyeing me, she pulls the blanket up to her chin.

Reaching across, I bend down, pressing the back of my hand across her forehead. “You have a fever.”

“I just took some medicine right before you got here. It’ll break soon.”

“You plan on telling me what happened?”

“No.”

“Well, I suggest you quickly modify your plans, then.”

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